


You Must Meet My Wife

by voodoochild



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dom/sub Play, Domestic, F/M, Fake Marriage, Gender Roles, POV Female Character, Roleplay, Vanilla
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-15
Updated: 2012-06-15
Packaged: 2017-11-07 18:46:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/434220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voodoochild/pseuds/voodoochild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft's assistant is the perfect employee - ruthless, competent, and absolutely discreet. Away from the office, she's trying to be the perfect something-else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Must Meet My Wife

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Kink Bingo, for the prompt "vanilla kink", though it takes a left into food fetish, a bit. Title from the song of the same name from Stephen Sondheim's "A Little Night Music", and I would pay a small fortune to see Gatiss play Fredrick one of these days. The quoted bit of Sinatra is from "Luck Be a Lady".

She can't concentrate.

Headlines scroll down at the touch of her finger, emails checked, attachments opened (and viruses destroyed) before they cross her boss's desk, and still she's unfocused. All she can feel is the distracting, maddening itch that she gets when it's been too long and she could and has thrown her Blackberry across a room to shatter against a wall.

It's understandable. She knows this, when she's calm and objective and when she talks to him about it. She has a high-stress, high-visibility job, and he's not a walk in the park to handle. If their intermittant games help her to function at peak performance, then she will never hear him utter a word of protest.

Besides, it's not as if he's not getting a nice dinner and a pleasant evening out of this.

When she needs it the most, she'll send a text to him: _Leaving early. See you at 7? - A_. 

The initial changes with her name. Last month she was "Cordelia" and it's been "Anthea" again for a few days. She thinks she might try "Naomi" next.

His response is always swift and always the same: _Of course, my dear. - M_

She doesn't know why she needs the disconnect between him at work - Mycroft Holmes, underground head of most of the British Government and her boss - and him anywhere else - just Mycroft, her partner and lover, devoid of politics. It's not as if Mycroft stops being himself when they're together like this, but the distinction has always been there, for his sake as well as hers. Because he needs the break, too; needs a time and place and person that makes no demands on him.

They just have to become other people in order to do that.

*****

She changes in the car, pencil skirt and exquisitely tailored blouse shed in favor of jeans and a polo shirt, her hair pulled into a messy ponytail. Heels kicked off and trainers laced up; she loses a few inches in height and he likes that. Makeup wiped off and reapplied carefully-casual. A bit of foundation, hint of eyeshadow, and lip gloss replacing her usual mask. She looks like the ten-thousand other housewives in London, and that's what they want.

The final thing she does to complete the look is to retrieve a black velvet box from the car's safe, and pull out two rings. The first is a lovely princess-cut diamond engagement ring, and it isn't new. It's been worn before, though Anthea has never asked him if it's truly the one he'd bought for his now-deceased wife or if it belonged to his mother (Mrs. Vernet-Holmes's taste in jewelry is well-known). The second is a gold wedding band, thin lines of crisscrossing gold braided together, and she's the only one who's ever worn it. The rings always feel curiously heavy on her finger, but she likes the reminder that the weight gives.

The car pulls up to his townhouse, and while Anthea (or Juliet or Penelope) stays inside the car, it's Cathy who gets out. Everyone from the doorman to the neighbors know her as Cathy - Mr. Holmes's lovely and sweet wife who works so hard at that environmental center, traveling so often. None of them have ever looked twice at her when she's Anthea, but Cathy can barely get up the walk before being greeted by passers-by.

(Cathy doesn't own a Blackberry, either, and thus it's sitting atop Anthea's clothing in the car. Sometimes she misses it. Sometimes she can't wait to leave it there.)

She enters the security code that only three other people in the world know, and toes off her trainers in the entrance hall just to feel her feet sink into the plush carpet. The maid service has been in this morning, so there's fresh fruit on the table and a full pantry and refrigerator as well as clean linen. She opens the bay window to let in some air, and because she knows he likes it, she collects the mail from the letterbox and leaves it on the hall table. He doesn't technically have to recieve the usual catalogues and leaflets - it's actually a security risk in some cases - but he likes the novelty of a select few (Gieves and Hawkes, Lock & Co, and Fortnum and Mason, but only once a month).

It's a little before 6 pm, which gives her enough time to peruse the pantry and refrigerator to decide on dinner. Once he'd remembered she'd spent her university years as a sous chef in New York, he'd actually requested it as part of their games. Other times, he likes to go out to eat, order something she's cooked for him as Cathy, and savor precisely how much better hers is. Smiling, she pulls out the two fresh lobsters she'd texted Marlena to acquire (their housekeeper is nearly as attached to her Blackberry as Anthea is) and starts melting butter and chopping mushrooms and onions for the bisque. His diet only allows him to indulge rarely, so she tries to make his favorites for their games.

With the soup started, she considers what to make as a main dish. He'd probably give her a raise and bump up her security clearance for tongue or Wagyu, but those aren't things a normal housewife would get often. She'll compromise - risotto osso buco alla milanese - because there is enough veal and she's been dying for risotto herself. 

Cooking is one of the things she truly loves; it's challenging and relaxing all at once, and it helps her forget about her business persona. She uses the time to slowly bleed herself of Anthea (of meetings with the Home Secretary and translating Pashtu into Punjabi because his Pashtu is good, but his Punjabi is better) and settle into Catherine Montague-Holmes. Cathy is a PR rep for an international environmental firm - and you could check that, of course, all the paperwork's been done - who loves swing dancing, yoga, and cooking. 

All of that is true of Anthea, except for the swing dancing, which is growing on her.

Cathy doesn't have to concentrate on anything but adding the precise half-cups of chicken stock at the right time, and ensuring her veal shanks and vegetables don't burn. It brings her right back to the line at Marea, that zen-like precision and routine. She can feel her shoulders softening, her spine curving into a less-rigid posture. Her bare toes curl into the carpet and she could shiver in delight at the plush, rich, texture against her skin. In the winter, she's similarly hedonistic, preferring cashmere sweaters and fur boots, and Mycroft loves her indulgence.

The stereo clicks on, which means it's six-thirty. He has it on a remote timer from his office, and it's the signal that he's leaving. His car will pull up outside in thirty minutes, and the real play can begin.

It's the last moment that she's Anthea for a very long time.

*****

John Legend is playing, and it's something she would - no, something that Anthea would - never listen to. Cathy likes it, though, hums along with it even though she doesn't actually know any of the words. She stirs at the risotto with one hand, and plugs in the immersion blender to use on the bisque. Taps absently to the beat with her nails atop the lineoleum. Her fingers don't even miss the Blackberry.

There's the familiar whine of the car's brakes, and a door slam, and she smiles; her husband is home. She can feel her pulse pick up, a flush to her cheeks, and she almost shivers as the familiar acoustic guitar intro plays to her favorite song. Their music for nights like this is always the same: Legend to ease her into it, Clapton when he gets home, classical for dinner, then depending on what they end up doing, it could be Sinatra, jazz or opera. 

(She is beginning to become very fond of Madame Butterfly. Anthea knows her opera, of course, but Cathy doesn't, and Mycroft delights in introducing her to his favorite arias.)

The timer for the oven goes off, and she opens it to check on the veal. The aroma is perfect - rosemary, thyme, and bay leaves - and she pours the half-cooked risotto in to finish before closing the oven door. The bisque is almost done, and she adds the last of the lobster, whisking in cream and white wine.

"Lobster bisque and osso buco risotto della milanese? I'd propose if we weren't already married, my dear," a low voice in her ear says, and she absolutely does not jump. 

That would be a little too in-character.

Mycroft smiles down at her, and she leans up for a kiss before nudging him away from the stove with her hip.

"Get your nose out of the oven. It won't cook if you keep opening it."

"Heaven forbid," he drawls, and rests his hands on her waist. "Do I have time for a shower, or will that ruin your dinner plans?"

He doesn't actually need to shower, but it's become the best way to get him out of his work persona and into the persona they need for this game. Here, in his three-piece Harris tweed, umbrella by the door, he's still too much of her boss. He hasn't lost the calculating glint in his eyes or the aloof facade.

"You have thirty minutes, or I'm eating this all without you."

He lets out a genuine, shocked laugh, and kisses her again. Slow and sweet, this time, more heat to it. "Back in half that, love."

True to his word, he's only fifteen minutes. She's opening a bottle of Sangiovese and setting out plates on the table when he comes back into the kitchen. Cathy turns around to inspect him, and he's perfect, as usual. He's put on simple grey flannel trousers, a white Oxford, and a blue jumper, all from their shopping trip to Debenham's last month. He'd pitched such a fuss in the beginning and Anthea had to threaten to "lose" the files from the Qatar briefing, but it had turned out rather well. 

Blue is definitely his color.

*****

They sit at the countertop and don't feed each other; this is the result of much trial and error. Sitting at the long table is impersonal - it feels like they're in two separate rooms - and requires one of them to turn their back to the door (impossible, they may be playing at marriage, but they're still themselves and security is important). The countertop is intimate and casual, and gives them both a view of all entrances and exits. 

They don't feed each other because they'd laugh too much. The one and only time he'd tried to feed her some food (a bite of some truly excellent chocolate mousse from La Tristesse), she'd giggled at the wrong moment and the chocolate had ended up on his shirt.

But there is wine and bread and excellent food, and Mycroft telling her a funny story from his university days. If you'd asked her - any of her, Anthea, Cathy, Nicola, Judith - she would never have pegged Mycroft for the social type, but apparently he'd honed both his networking and his drinking skills at Oxford. He steals a bite of her veal and naturally, she retaliates by taking a forkful of risotto.

"It's the same as you have on your plate," he mutters.

"You started it," she says. "Except you've put more pepper on yours."

The simple banter shouldn't feel so good, but it does. It's familiar; he likes too much pepper and steals her food, she can't stand black pepper and pretends to get upset with him. It's part of the game, sneaking a little of their true selves into the personas, allowing them to be honest with each other, but only in certain contexts.

Food eaten and wine almost finished, they pile plates in the sink and Cathy sits at the countertop while Mycroft washes the dishes. He detests it, of course, but he refuses to make her clean after cooking. She likes watching him; he's fascinating, the way he approaches scrubbing each pot and pan and plate like it's insulted his mother, and singing along to Sinatra under his breath when he thinks she isn't listening.

The song changes, and she finds herself being lifted off the seat, Mycroft's hands at her waist. The dish towel is flung somewhere they'll have to dig it out later, and he still smells of Palmolive. She loves this song, did a bit of musical theatre a long time and many names ago, and remembers wanting to sing it.

_Luck, if you've ever been a lady to begin with..._

He spins her around, a lazy turn and flick of his wrist to pull her back in again. Close enough to kiss, but that's for later, and anyway, she doesn't get to dance with him nearly enough. He claims to hate it, but he's good at it.

"Mummy insisted on proper lessons for both Sherlock and I," he says, doing his usual mind-reading. "It was boring, all precise form and strict measures. I loathe it in social contexts, but here with you, I don't mind at all."

"You did teach me to waltz," she says, alluding to the Belgian embassy ball a few years ago.

She'd been such a kid, then. Barely out of university, having just taken a position with the Home Office due to her excellent recall of details and her ability to speak, among other languages, Portugese, Hindu, Farsi, and Korean. She'd caught Mycroft's eye - and his wallet, he'd dropped it as a test for her - a few weeks later. He'd needed a Girl Friday, a pretty thing to distract with when needed and who could keep up with him. Apparently, it had been years since any of his assistants had challenged him.

Her second night on the job, he'd dressed her up in a silver, backless, very much designer gown, told her to brush up on her Farsi, and had her tail the Pakistani Consul. He'd been pleased to get not only her report, but the SAS troop movements the man had tried to steal. Then he'd asked her to dance. She'd learned to waltz on the spot, the first of many times he would teach her something valuable.

A year later, she got the French ambassador out of a nasty little scandal with an elegant waltz and a deft brush pass of his schedule to Mycroft.

"I did indeed." He twirls her again now, looping his arm around her back to dip her. "It's never a chore with you, my dear."

It's never a chore with him, either, but she can feel her mind start to slide back into Anthea. Feel herself tense up, wish for her Blackberry (it has her whole life on it, she misses it), chafe at the low waistband on her jeans and worry that the Israeli defense minister is going to do something disastrous on a night when she can't clean it up.

"Stop," Mycroft says, pausing in his spin with both hands on her waist. His voice is low in her ear, calming. "Cathy, remember? My beautiful and loving wife. Here, with me."

She kisses him to stop the disconnect and mostly, because it's what she'd do in either role. She doesn't know what that says about her.

*****

He's let her push him out of the kitchen and onto the living room sofa; "let" is the operative word, because they both know he's in control of this game, and he could stop her if he wanted. She - well, Anthea - wants to straddle him, tease him, feel him leave fingerprint-bruises on her hips and swear in that cut-glass voice of his. 

But that isn't Cathy's husband. That isn't what they do, and so she pushes Anthea back down, settling next to Mycroft on the sofa and continuing their slow, languid kisses.

"See?" he says, low and soft against her mouth. "All the time in the world, love."

So slow, so careful, but worth it to feel his low groan when she playfully nips his lower lip. Worth it to smooth her hands over his back and feel a simple layer of cotton, not cotton-and-silk-and-tweed. He can slip a hand under her shirt and feel skin, not have to unbutton and tug out of place. She can let him muss her hair all he wants - and he does want, he likes twisting and tugging and savoring the feel of her hair - and not have to be sure it's back in place for the CIA briefing.

The slow, wet trace of his tongue around the shell of her ear makes her shiver, reminding her of other things he can do with his tongue. He won't, though, not now. There is a ritual for these nights, and while she has the occasional urge to rush, it's nearly always worth her while to wait.

"Lie back," he says, and oh, that's a change. He's rushing, very unlike him at all. 

She flattens her palm against his chest, feels the soft thud of his heart against her fingertips. Too slow for allowing himself to feel pure sensation, the way he tries when they are not-Mycroft-and-Anthea. She edges back, putting some distance between them.

"Stop thinking."

"I'm-"

"You are."

He laces his fingers with hers atop his chest, "I was going to say I'm trying not to."

She isn't offended. It isn't the easiest thing in the world for someone like Mycroft to completely shut his brain down, and some nights it's harder than others. If it were a normal night, she would offer to tie him to the bed, ask if he'd let her blindfold him and keep him guessing until his brain shut off from pleasure. But these nights are different; they're usually for her, for controlling her own brain on overdrive. She relies on his mastery and control over himself, on the way he can take care of her and himself at the same time.

"But you are," she says, and places a little of Anthea's certainty into Cathy's need. "How badly do you want this?"

His brow furrows. "Are you safewording?"

"Did you hear my safeword?"

"No," he admits, shaking his head. He runs a hand along her knuckles, a quick, touchstone gesture that he never uses unless she's Anthea. "I'm sorry. It was the Russian motorcade nearly shutting down Trafalgar Square and the sodding Koran burnings in Israel and I think the MP from Brixton's decided to stage a sit-in at Whitehall until I appoint him to the appropriations committee. And all I want to do is shut down, which is nowhere approaching fair to you, love."

"Fair isn't quite on the menu for us, is it?" she says, trying to remain light, cling by her fingernails to character. He looks so disconcerted that she makes an executive decision. "All right. Blackberry."

They're both a little disappointed that she safeworded, but he immediately holds his arms out for an embrace and wraps them around her. 

*****

In their bedroom, she strips off the tee-shirt and jeans; sharp, efficient Anthea movements that feel good to slip back into. She always needs a massage after being Cathy, all the slouching and laziness in her movements just tense her muscles up dreadfully. Her hand barely has time to reach toward her trapezius before a pair of larger hands settles on her shoulders and upper back. She sinks back into Mycroft with a contented sigh, and lets the rhythmic kneading calm her.

"Will you try something for me?" he asks, working his way down her back.

"What is it?"

"I believe I have found a solution to our dilemma tonight. Since I cannot shut down, I suppose I can take advantage of my control. You need to be Cathy, correct?"

She groans as he hits a particularly painful knot. "I've already safeworded. I don't know if I can be her again for a while."

He stops the massage, drawing her back into his arms. She's almost drowning in feeling; his body heat seeping into her, the controlled in-and-out of his breath, the feel of his body against hers, the solid line of his cock at her back. Overwhelming in the way that he wants and she needs.

"Sweetheart," he says, and it's his husband-voice and his top voice in one. God, what a combination. "Listen to me. We're going to work this out. We're going to give you what you need while giving me what I need. Don't you want that?"

"I - yes. What do-"

"Shush. All you have to do is listen, all right?"

"All right," she concedes, and tries to keep her breathing steady. 

He slides a finger under her bra strap - not enough time today to change into something more Cathy-ish, it's red satin and expensive - pushing it down her shoulder and brushing his mouth over the skin there.

"I like my present, you know," he says, the squeeze to the fingers of her left hand their code for improvisation. "It was perfect, darling. Just perfect. The dinner and now this lovely ensemble. So sneaky to be hiding this under your usual clothes."

The smile spreads across her face, though he can't see it. Turning her mistake into part of the game is something they haven't really done before. Ignored it, yes, but never acknowledged it.

"So you do like it?"

"Mmm, very much. You know I adore you in red."

His hands smooth down her bared skin, stroking deliberately over her arms, down her stomach, warm and teasing through the silk of her knickers. He doesn't touch her anywhere more intimate than her thighs and belly, but she wants more and rises to his touch. He tugs her gently back by her hips toward the bed, guides her to lie on her side while he curls up behind her. Her bra is being held on only by the band and her breasts spill out of the satin, though he's paying more attention to the tracing of his hands over her neck and arms.

The words come out, almost unconsiously. "I wanted to surprise you. No special reason, I just wanted to feel a bit naughty."

A huff of breath against her neck, and an openmouthed kiss to her hairline. "Which you have accomplished, my dear. Did you think about what I'd do when I saw your present?"

"Yes," she moans, trying in vain to rub against him, to make his touches firmer. "You saw the bra strap at dinner. Had me up against the breakfast bar because you couldn't wait."

"What a lovely picture. Do you know what I'd like, Cathy?"

"Yes?"

His fingers flick the clasp of the bra, then slide under the knickers in a quick brush. "I want to make you come around my fingers. Can you do that?"

"Oh god, of course. Yes, please."

*****

Not-seeing him is its own tease, of course, because she can't try and guess where and when he'll touch her next. It stops her thinking, forces her to focus on her breathing and her body and the way he feels against her. He hasn't even touched her for very long; a thumb-stroke to the underside of her breast, the sweep of the pads of his fingers over her collarbone, the barest hint of the heel of his hand against her cunt. All of it has her shaking and gasping and wanting more.

He always makes the simplest acts into some of the most erotic. She's wetter now than the last time she tied him to the bedpost and teased him for hours, and he won't bloody shut up.

"That's it, darling, you're doing beautifully. You're so very good for me - no, sweetheart, don't hold back. Let me hear you. Yes, lovely, just like that."

"Please," she begs, biting her lip. "Please, Mycroft, more."

He kisses her temple, then slides a hand between her legs. She's almost embarrassingly ready, and he rolls her to her back. A little shiver goes through her, the way he watches her face as he pushes two fingers into her. She tries not to sob at the almost-good-enough feel - she wants him to fuck her, but he won't, not tonight.

It doesn't matter. The feel of him surrounding her, his breath against her neck and the hook of his leg to spread her open, is just perfect. She relishes the surrender, the luxury in lying back and allowing him to give her pleasure. The stretch in her legs as she arches off the bed, the clench of her fingers in the sheets, the ache in her cunt as she snaps her hips up for more.

"Won't you come for me, my Cathy?" Mycroft asks, and her breath comes out of her like a shot, her body curling up with the force of her climax.

She barely feels him smoothing her hair back, but she doesn't care. This is what he does, he takes care of her, and it's what she needed most. Cathy's fading with the tension in her limbs, Cathy's need for perfection and simplicity of life.

She takes a breath, opens her eyes, and knows it's Anthea looking out again.


End file.
